Bedazzled
by Cricket Spinner
Summary: Look, you really do have to be careful with what you wish for. It's not just a cliche, really.


Bedazzled

A/N- I took quite a big liberty with mythology, I know. Please do not flame me for that, I did it on purpose. I'm also cheerful to announce that literally any form of "This story didn't suck" makes me squee.

Disclaimer- I own nothing. Except for some of the ideas, and even then… *shrugs*

The woman was staring at him, arms crossed across her not-inconsiderable chest. "My eyes, they are a bit above where you are staring."

"You've seen what you're wearing, right?" Draco pointed out, eyes still dropping every few seconds.

"Bah. One of your maternal ancestors had an inaccurate fetish," she said, Irish accent a sharp contrast to the Hollywood-like harem costume. Not that Draco Malfoy knew what Hollywood was. "May I change my outfit?"

"No," Draco said firmly. He was actually grateful that the grimy little house-elf for bringing him this "great weapon", even if he looked like something out of a child's horror story. "What do I call you?"

"Moira will do for now," she said archly. "It's better than you can manage, English." Malfoy looked at her critically. Aside from the obvious, she looked more like an Auror than the sex conjuration he'd assumed. Huh. "So I assume you want something?"

"What do you have to offer?" Draco wasn't quite the fool some people seemed to think he was.

"Three wishes, no holds barred," the conjuration said, dark purple eyes looking at the ceiling. Her fingers were clenching and unclenching, as if she wanted to grab something and kill someone.

Well, a bit of self-interest first wouldn't hurt. That was one of the tenets of modern Pureblood philosophy, one his father had gotten quite good at using to his own ends. Besides, he should test it out…

"I wish to be the best Seeker in the history of the Wizarding World."

Moira nodded, a hint of a wicked smile on her face. "A competitor, then?" she mused.

Draco nodded. "Potter beats me every year," he said, hoping to make his annoyance clear. She nodded, and snapped her finger, a single black feather in her hand.

"You want to test it out?" she said, fetching his broom from his polishing stand. He didn't notice her smirk, or a series of cracks masked against the woodgrain.

Draco looked angrily at the bitch and her idiotic flippy hair. "What was that?" The Healers said he would have a slight limp for the rest of his life, and they couldn't entirely sort out all the bone fragments in his lower arm.

"The price of talent," Moira said wryly. "One of your competitors- that Nott boy, perhaps, used some of that famed Slytherin cunning and weakened your broomstick so it would shatter on certain twists. Apparently you still bought your way on the team, and that annoyed a fair few people- you still managed to lose your games."

Draco gaped. "Why didn't you warn me, you mad biddy!"

The conjuration's smile was pure poison. "You forgot to ask. And I despise cheats." She sat on his luxurious silk sheets, dark nails twisting in the dark green fabric.

Draco nodded. "Fine then. Perhaps your Majesty will handle this wish a bit more usefully?"

She yawned, flopping completely onto the bed. "What is it you command, sheep boy?"

That display of insolence perhaps pushed his buttons even more than she had hoped. "I want Potter dead!" If he could do that, then his father could honestly be proud of him. Using a magical construct as a catspaw would only make it sweeter.

Moira frowned at this, then snapped her fingers. "I'll insure you receive notification by an official source." She vanished with a puff of feathers.

Draco collapsed miserably on his bed and wondered if he could get away with using up the last wish to fix himself up, or if Father would insist that he get rid of Black.

Moira smiled from her perch on the footstool, tossing him a newspaper called The London Times two days later. "Check out the obits," she said proudly. "Fourth column, second entry"

Draco tore through the pages. (Literally- Moira winced as the paper tore in half in spots.) He finally hit the paper, using his index finger to follow. He went deathly pale as he looked at the name. "THOMAS POTTER?"

Moira nodded. "You said to kill Potter. You didn't specify who. Thomas Potter, age ninety two, former World War Two vet, died peacefully in his sleep surrounded by family. The second best death I could have offered."

He pointed a newsprint stained finger at her. "You- you- I wish you would go far away and never come back!" Which just goes to prove that some things really are genetic, like forgetting loopholes enslaved beings can exploit.

Moira, known to history as an aspect of the Morrigan called Nemain or Nimue, depending on the island and legend, returned to the home she had been held captive in for so long. She felt two emotions- hatred for her captors, and a certain sort of fondness for their crazy. (She was, after all, a Very Violent and Tricky Goddess.)

She sat on a desk, looking at some of the old pictures. Smirking, she changed into a tight, slightly short Sex Pistols shirt, shorter skirt, and combat boots. She'd never been able to do much with her hair, which resembled her feathers in corvid form.

…A bikini would just be tacky, she felt. And a bit cold. Even if half the trick was bedazzling them so much they couldn't think straight. Such as the simple fact that she was truly beholden only to the oldest family member, not just any young upstart. Given the Blacks' history, it should have been obvious.

Perhaps she would have true freedom now. Or at least be able to kill people. And not just a boy with a soul fragment in his head. (Which she suspected Macha might want to deal with, which was why she just hadn't let the soul fragment take reign of the boy's body.)

She pulled out a heavy book and propped her boots on the chair back, just in time for the door to swing open and the current head of the Black family to see what a goddess wore under her skirt.

Sirius looked skyward. "I never believed my father when he said our ancestor was Merlin," he said to a crack in the plaster.

"He was terribly overrated, magic wise," Nemain admitted amusedly. "And Merlin had three descending families- the Blacks, Delacours, and Princes."

"Or that Nimue was actually a goddess he trapped," Sirius continued.

"Yet here I am," she drawled. "Son of a bitch tricked me."

"And that we had three unlimited wishes from her," Sirius added. "But you'd always try to find a loophole."

"Yes, your… relative, I suppose, tried that. Didn't work so well," Nemain drawled in a fairly good imitation of the little pest. Sirius blinked and smirked.

"Yes, Narcissa never did listen to Uncle Alphard's suggestions about the legend," Sirius said dryly. "I however, did."

Nemain blinked. What suggestion could possibly work against her?

He sighed gloomily. "Remus is going to go spare at this one. So is… actually, I don't think I'll get a Weasley lecture for this one."

Nemain glared at him. "Hurry up. I'm curious."

"Well, I could wish to be a trickster god…" he mused. Nemain snapped her fingers gleefully. She always could use help with her mischief.

"Shit, spoke too soon," he said, eyes wide and wild. Possibly from his brain rewiring itself a little.

She wondered if he'd remember he still had two wishes. She rather hoped so. This promised to be the most interesting thing in centuries. What chaos...


End file.
